


no one but us

by lukegodbaby



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Recreational Drug Use, TRANS GIRL HENRY OWNS MY HEART, Trans Female Character, gender nonconformance, that means weed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lukegodbaby/pseuds/lukegodbaby
Summary: On the scale of one to ten, ten being the most real a situation could be, it still doesn't feel real to Henry. She's at a solid two.Or,The one where I finally wrote trans girl Henry, and my heart exploded onto the word document.
Relationships: Henry Bowers/Victor Criss
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	no one but us

**Author's Note:**

> “no one / in this room of memory / but us, dear–” — Kim Addonizio, from ‘Suite pour les amours perdues’, Wild Nights: New and Selected Poems

On the scale of one to ten, ten being the most real a situation could be, it still doesn't feel real to Henry. She's at a solid two. 

She still likes beer with salt and Seagram's and wearing pants and showing off the muscles well earned. She still likes other girls. 

She feels like… she needs to go all in. Start drinking fruity shit and wearing nightgowns to bed and give up on girls and be some guy's pretty little thing. Grow out her hair longer than this, this six months without a cut she has going on. 

Six months. 

Six months since Butch…

In the end, putting Butch in that booze-soaked early grave had pushed her over the edge. A weight was lifted, and then shoved back down on her. 

When she was sixteen, on her birthday, the guys had gotten her drunk and high. Their treat. Vic brought the weed, rich boy shelling out as always. A bottle of Seagram's dutifully saved up for from Belch. And a carton of Marlboro reds, and a box of oatmeal cream pies, and a fucking cool pair of second hand boots from Patrick. 

When she thinks of that night now, she can't remember much. 

But she'll never forget telling the guys, tears in her eyes, that she couldn't wait for her old man to fucking  _ die _ . 

She'll never forget the guilt. Sixteen. No, fourteen. No, twelve, when the clock began ticking. When she knew that while Butch was alive, she'd never be free. 

She stares at the seven and seven in her hand. The house is empty, the boys all out for the night. 

Eight. Eight years old when her mother threw in the towel, left with Butch screaming and throwing beer bottles. 

She knows. She knows, okay, that the clock should've started right there. 

But it didn't. She was still Daddy's boy for four more years. 

She winces. She wonders if, from where he's undoubtedly in hell, he's seen these last six months and what she's done with it. 

How she went to the funeral in a rented suit, the boys standing by her as always, as all the other police officers from the county mourned the untimely loss of one of their own. 

How just last night, the boys all asleep or, in Patrick's case, minding their own business, she'd stood in the second floor bathroom, glaring herself down in the mirror, and had finally admitted it to herself. 

She was a chick. And she'd probably always been, and she. Was. Terrified. 

Sex had always been so much easier. Who she wanted, when she wanted, boys, girls, you name it. 

It had even been easier when Patrick and Vic had sat her down and told her there was a name for what she was.  _ Bisexual _ , and lots of people used it, them included. 

She had to laugh about that, and she does right now, letting the frantic sound of it fill the empty house. 

There was a name for it. 

There was a name for her. 

All of her, not just the sex. 

_ Transgender _ . 

After the funeral, she told the guys to take her out.  _ Anywhere there's whiskey,  _ she'd said. 

They took her to a gay bar. They holed up in a booth across from the bar, and between rounds, Henry had stretched her legs, going to pick up more drinks. Moscow mule for Belch, bloody mary for Patrick, tequila sunrise for Vic, and another whiskey for her. 

And behind the bar, her spitting image. Tall as her, muscular like her, a curly mullet and a leather jacket with a pink triangle on the sleeve. 

And bright. Red. Lipstick. 

She thought of that woman often. Just last week, she'd been in a second hand store, looking at jeans in between her shift at the hardware store and her shift stocking produce at the grocery store. She'd wandered over to the dresses and wondered, what was  _ that  _ woman's style?

'Cause if you're a woman, you've gotta like dresses, right? 

Probably wrong.

She finishes the last of her seven and seven, promising herself another shortly. 

But there's something she needs to do first. 

Patrick had said, at the end of their move-in day, two years ago, that they were blessed to have found this house. Four rooms. Each big enough for company.  _ Blessed, _ he'd said in that dead way he got around to when he wasn't trying to impress anyone. 

Patrick had been twenty-one. The rest of them, nineteen and working two jobs apiece to have enough money for rent and whatever else popped up, usually pot or booze. 

Vic is bartending tonight. Won't be home until after three. It's one thirty. 

Patrick and Belch, out on dates. A one-time fuck and a girlfriend well approved of, respectively. 

It's one thirty. 

She gets up. Leaves her glass behind in the kitchen and goes to Vic's room. 

She likes Vic's room. It’s always covered in clothes. Somehow, Vic ended up looking good no matter what he wore, and what he usually wore had been picked up off the floor. As soon as he'd left his parents' house, he'd forgotten all manners and how to keep his space clean, and Henry loves it. 

No more entering Vic's bedroom and being ashamed and scared because  _ he  _ had a mother who did his laundry, who loved him deeply, and would never leave. 

She wondered what it meant, that Vic had left his mother's rules behind. 

She wondered if it meant that having a mother there wasn't always great. 

She leaves his door open so she'll be able to hear into the rest of the house, a habit picked up by the time she'd turned nine, when Butch had started coming home with a bottle of whiskey and a hand on his belt buckle. She needs to hear the house, every shift and creaking board. 

It's raining. Here on the second floor, she can hear the rain hitting the roof dimly as though from miles away. Maybe it’s the drinks she's had, dampening her senses. 

Probably. 

Standing in Vic's door, she looks around her. The Billy Idol poster, the George Michael records. And the clothes, clothes, clothes everywhere. 

She squats down, picks up the first piece of clothing she touches, and holds it up to take a look. 

Like most of Vic's 'closet', it's feminine. And it's probably a favorite, for the sequins. 

Vic once said, in a lofty voice and high off his ass, "darling, anything that shines, I deserve — I shine, and everyone should be able to see that."

So she looks at it. It's a long shirt, or a very short dress. A bit bigger than Vic usually wears his clothes. It's covered, front, back, and straps in deep purple sequins. In the low light of Vic's room, it almost looks black. 

She knows she’s drunk. She knows that, because a thought appears and sticks in the forefront of her mind:

_ Put it on. _

And that might be the most terrifying thought she’s ever had.

That’s saying a lot, because it scares her more than  _ Dad is going to use his belt,  _ it scares her more than  _ this guy is so pretty and I want his dick in my mouth,  _ it scares her more than  _ he’s dead and I’m free but I’ll never forget,  _ it scares her more than  _ I’ll always be like Butch. _

Put it on.

She stands up straight and picks her way across Vic’s room, stepping around piles of clothes to go to the full-body mirror in the corner. She gets to the mirror, takes one look at her own scowling face, and turns away.

She’s just drunk enough that there’s no need to make herself be brave. There’s no pep talk needed. She drops the dress/shirt/thing and then yanks her own shirt off over her head, one hand on the back of the neck.

Drops it to the floor, picks up whatever the fuck the sequined thing is, and, without a spare moment for thought, pulls it over her head.

When it’s pulled all the way down, she decides it’s a dress.

And she hates how her jeans look under it, so she hikes the dress up and undoes the button and pushes them down, kicks them away. Grateful that she’s barefoot.

She turns.

In the mirror is someone she can recognize, but it’s like…it’s like this girl in the mirror is all dressed up for picture day at school, and she’s happy because she thinks she looks pretty, but all the other girls have seen her in ripped jeans and a hand-me-down shirt and they know what she really looks like, so she’s not fooling anyone.

“How many drinks have you had?” comes a gentle voice from the door.

Henry doesn’t jump. But she does wince, and close her eyes, and pray.

Patrick once taught her part of the rosary. Our father, who art in heaven…

_ Please, make him go away. I’m not ready. _

“Fuck you,” she barks. 

“Mm. Ask nicely.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I bet you’d love that. Take it off.”

She turns. 

“Huh?”

“I said, take it off. You don’t get to play dress up if you’re going to be an asshole about it.”

She takes it off. Stands there in her boxers and her bare feet, feeling dirty. 

She grabs her shit and goes to the door, about to push him out of the way. He holds an arm out and pulls her into a hug. Surprised, elated,  _ drunk _ , she lets it happen. 

“Henry,” he murmurs in her ear, “do you…  _ want  _ to play dress up? Or… is this just…  _ I’m drunk and bored _ ?”

This reaction is definitely the whiskey: tears well up. 

“Fuck you,” she snaps. 

She pushes him away, storming off to her room. 

When she gets inside, she strips off her boxers and looks down. 

Having a dick is okay, but if she could forget all about it and never look back, she would. 

...and she wishes she had tits. 

But otherwise… yeah, she looks… like a dude. 

And it sucks. 

She goes to the corner that holds her record player, bought at a pawn shop and lovingly looked after. She puts on a Johnny Cash record, sits on the floor next to her bed, and pulls out a joint Vic rolled for her a little while back. It’s a little stale, but smokeable. 

She smokes. 

She listens. 

She remembers Butch, how he loved Elvis. Hated Johnny Cash, like he didn’t have ears. She huffs to herself, thinking about her father’s awful taste in everything, but especially music, beer, and women. 

She thinks about Rena and the fucking baked beans that made her hate them, how she’ll probably go on hating them for the rest of her life. 

She pushes the thought of Rena away harder than she pushes away Butch. 

For some reason, the women who failed to raise her cause her more pain tonight than the man who succeeded, at such a great cost. 

For some reason, it seems like a great night to hang out with ghosts. 

She finishes the joint all by herself, listening to the faint sounds of Vic cooking downstairs. She wants to go down and ask why he’s home. 

She doesn’t do it. 

Then she gets bored and lonely, and decides she might as well. 

She goes downstairs. 

He’s making cookies — the smell is unmistakable. He’s sitting at the table with a sandwich on a plate and tequila in a shot glass, the bottle in front of his right hand. 

He’s staring down at his food and drink, looks up as Henry makes the floorboard right outside the kitchen creak. 

He smiles. 

Henry swallows. 

The timer dings, and Vic stands and goes to the oven, rounding a corner and disappearing from sight. 

Henry goes over and takes that shot of tequila, pouring another to replace it. 

“I keep asking myself if I want to know what you were doing in my clothes,” Vic says from around the corner. 

Henry hums. 

A minute passes, and then Vic comes back, plate full of hot chocolate chip cookies in his hand. He nods at the plate holding his sandwich, at the shot glass and bottle. 

“Grab those, we’re going to my room.”

“We… are?” Henry says, like she’s talking underwater. 

“If you want cookies, you’re getting the rest for me,” he says before he downs the shot, “and following me to my room.”

She swallows again. 

Vic walks away, and she scrambles to get the bottle and plate in her hands before she rushes off after him. 

Still, since she’s firstly drunk and secondly high as all hell, she makes it to his room after he’s put a George Michael record on.  _ Faith _ . 

He sings along:

_ Well, I guess it would be nice if I could touch your body — _

_ I know not everybody has got a body like you... _

“First things first,” Vic says. 

“O...kay?”

“I’m not going to ask why you were wearing my dress, and you don’t have to tell me.”

“Okay.”

“But… I am — I am curious as all hell.”

Henry purses her lips, and then sighs. 

These days, Vic is… well. Not her best friend, she’s pretty sure Patrick will always be that person for her, but. 

Vic… is like looking in a mirror. 

Vic’s not a chick. But he’s a flaming bisexual man with a love for hair bleach and sequins. 

Come  _ on _ . 

Henry is brave, but Vic?

Vic is fearless. 

“Vicky,” she says, “if I tell you something, you can’t tell the guys.”

“Ooh, baby,” he croons, dancing now. “I better take another shot.”

Henry holds out the bottle, and when it’s gone from her hands, scrubs her face up and down, both hands. She’s still barefoot, still bare chested, still in her boxers. 

She wishes, more than anything, for a different life. 

But, in the smallest voice from the smallest corner of her mind, comes a voice:

_ But you wouldn’t get to watch Vic dance, if you had a different life.  _

She smiles, a faint thing. 

Be born a chick, or watch Vic dance?

_ Be born a chick.  _

But since that’s not an option, she watches Vic dance. 

He buzzes around the room, kicking clothes and shoes to the side as he goes. He dances, shimmies, spins. Happy, so the tips must have been good tonight. 

She gets two cookies, eating them in three bites apiece as he wipes the eyeliner and lipstick off. 

He looks in the mirror, right at her, and smiles. 

She grins, showing her teeth and the chewed up cookie. 

He guffaws. 

“All right, all right,” he says, “you’re probably wondering why I dragged you in here.”

“Baby, I wonder that every day I spend with you.”

He smiles. 

“Wanna play dress up? I actually have some stuff you might like, if you’re in the mood to put on a dress.”

Henry swallows. 

And swallows. 

And keeps swallowing, forgetting how to breathe, forgetting how to think. 

She’s scared, though she trusts him. 

She’s scared — she doesn’t trust herself. 

She blinks away tears. 

“Hey, hey, big guy, it’s okay,” Vic says, soft, right in front of her. 

“Please don’t call me that,” she whispers. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Sweetheart? Look at me.” 

She looks at him. 

“Do you want a hug?”

She nods. 

“All right, c’mere,” he says, opening his arms. 

The song changes —  _ One More Try _ . 

She doesn’t listen to the words, just the mournful tune. 

She steps into his arms. 

“Listen,” he says, “whatever you tell me, I’m gonna keep to my damn self. That’s that.”

She nods into his shoulder, eyes screwed shut. 

“But take your time. It’s… it’s okay.”

“I wanna tell you,” she whispers. “I’m just chickenshit, that’s all.”

“You’re not fuckin’ chickenshit, Henry.”

“Wanna  _ bet _ ?”

“Hm. I  _ bet  _ you’ll tell me.”

“I’m a girl,” she whispers into his shoulder. 

“Hm?”

“I’m a girl!” she snarls, backing away from him.

“Hey, hey — I just didn’t hear you, that’s all. Okay?”

In a flash, that little flame of anger is gone. 

In its wake, she sobs. 

She wants to scream about how fucking scared she is; she wants to deck him. She wants to go out somewhere and pick a fight, but nowhere’s open now. 

She wants to put on a dress, just as long as she doesn’t look like a girl on picture day. 

He’s wrapping her up in his arms, slow and gentle like reaching for a feral cat. 

“You had a lot to smoke, huh?”

“Yeah…”

“That’s okay, it’ll be okay.” 

“Will it?”

“Yes.”

Not _sure_ , not _yeah_ , not _I_ _guess_. 

Yes. 

She takes refuge in that single syllable, holding it in her heart. 

Will it be okay?  _ Yes _ . 

She sighs. 

“Okay, I wanna dress up.”

“Oh hell yeah. C’mere, take a look.”

Vic pulls her to the closet. She trips on a platform go-go boot on the way, but otherwise makes it there unscathed. 

“What kinda girl are you?” Vic asks. “I’m pretty sure I know, I just want to know if you’re hiding like… the tastes of a supermodel in there.”

Henry looks at her blankly, reaching for the jeans jacket Vic stole from her forever ago and never gave back. Old as all hell and light and soft. She loves it to death, thought it got lost. 

“You have to ask if you want to keep something that’s mine, y’know,” she says. “I’m not a supermodel. Gimme something that matches this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vic chuckles. 

He shoos her away, and she sits on the long edge of the bed, facing the closet, watches the whirlwind Vic makes as he looks for something for her to wear. 

“Ah! Close your eyes!” 

She gives him a damn mean look before she does it. 

She hears him humming to her left, and she wonders what the hell he thinks is good enough to hide. 

She knows his closet. It’s shitty. Shiny. Sparkly. 

She knows, now, that it’s not her style. Still, she trusts him, somehow. 

She trusts him. 

“Open.”

She opens her eyes and looks at him. He’s grinning as he gestures to the bed beside her. 

Looking down, her eyes get wide. There’s her jacket, where she threw it. A plaid button down, tied in a knot in the front. And a jeans skirt, the same shade of almost-white blue as her jacket. 

She wants to cry, and she also wants to run away and laugh at him like it was a joke. 

But also?

She also wants to put that shit on. 

“Oh…” she says. 

“Did I fuck up? I thought  _ comfortable…  _ and… the skirt’s not too short, is it?”

Henry barks out a laugh. 

“That sequinny shit I tried earlier was too short. This is… fuckin’ great, actually.”

“Oh, Jesus. Thank you, God,” Vic sighs. “You were — uh, easy to pin down, but I was worried.”

“Mm.” 

Henry stands. 

And she starts getting dressed. 

She purposefully doesn’t turn away from the mirror as she’s getting dressed — doesn’t want to seem too scared — but she also doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t want to get too excited. 

The skirt, the shirt, the jacket. She doesn’t look down at herself before she slips out of the room, Vic on her tail, and she gets her black boots, lacing them up and tying the laces tight. 

She looks down. She nods. She looks at Vic, who’s smiling a beamy smile, and gives a hesitant smile of her own. 

“C’mon,” Vic says, taking her hand and pulling her to his room again. 

He stands her in front of the mirror. 

She looks. 

In the absence of sequins, she doesn’t look like it’s picture day anymore. She looks like she’s gonna go to a tiny speck of a bar, drink a beer, play some pool. 

She loves it. 

“Not bad,” she says at long last. 

“Uh huh, right,” Vic says. “Those are your nice boots. You don’t wear those for something that’s  _ not bad _ .”

Henry thinks about snapping at him. 

Instead, she looks at herself in the mirror. Pushes her hair away from her forehead, except for that one strand that won’t go anywhere, unbuttons one more button at the top of her shirt, flips the collar of her jeans jacket. 

“Yeah,” she says, soft. 

Vic’s reflection looks taken aback. 

She turns to look straight at him, and he smiles. 

“You really are… yeah,” he says. “You weren’t pulling my leg.”

She huffs out a laugh. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess… just. Been too scared to tell anyone.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “You’re back where I used to be.”

“Huh?”

“Before we left Derry, and I was just… hoarding skirts and knee socks and lipstick, y’know? I may be just a flamboyant guy, but I was still so fucking scared that someone’d find out and make my life hell.”

Henry nods. 

“So…” Vic starts, then he snaps his mouth shut. He shakes his head. 

Henry, bullish as always, presses. 

“What’s up?” she asks. 

“Two things, I guess,” Vic says. “One, you wanna try makeup? Two, you wanna tell the guys?”

Two things. Henry swallows. Twice. 

“I —” she starts. 

Then she swallows. 

She does.  _ Not _ . Want. To tell. The guys. 

Patrick may be a  _ this-queer-bashes-back  _ kinda guy, and Belch will be loyal to her for the rest of their lives, but. 

“Uh, I’ll do makeup, but don’t do me like… sparkly… prom night shit, okay?”

Vic snorts. 

“Not that you wouldn’t look good, but nah. I kinda…” 

And then he full-on laughs. 

“Babe, you’re so pretty, I’ve been daydreaming about doing your makeup forever.”

Henry’s mind freezes. She knows, okay, that when she thought she was a dude, she thought of other dudes as pretty. 

But she knows Vic. 

She knows what it feels like when he’s lying, and when he’s saying something to make her feel better, all words and no meaning, and this isn’t that. 

This isn’t that at all. 

“Pretty, huh?” she says, ducking her head. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. 

Her head shoots up, and he’s looking at her. 

She knows that look. She’s only seen it a few times: move-in day, high school graduation. The day she broke Jack Saunders’ ratty fucking face. The first time she hooked up with a guy. 

He’s  _ proud _ . 

“Cut it out,” she hisses, blushing. 

“Never.”

“Just do my makeup.”

He smiles, bigger, and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Fine, fine,” he says. “But on one condition.”

“Ugh. What?”

“I think you should tell the guys. And… I want to go out, grab some pancakes ‘cause this sandwich isn’t cutting it, and we can wait for the guys to come back, maybe take them with us?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t want the guys to come. Patrick hasn’t been given the  _ don’t be a creep _ talk yet, and Belch is gonna be out all night with Stacey.”

“These are all very good points.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Great, now do my fucking makeup.”

“You didn’t say if you’d come to the diner with me.”

“Jesus H.  _ Christ _ , yes! I’ll go to the fucking diner with you.”

“Fuck, yes. C’mere.”

He beckons her back to the edge of his bed, and has her sit. He looks at her intently, like he's just enjoying the view, and she blushes. 

“If you don’t fucking do my makeup, I’ll do it myself, but first, I’ll punch you.”

Again, Vic snorts. 

“That’s my girl,” he chuckles. 

Henry looks down at the hem of her borrowed skirt. At her bitten fingernails she wished were longer, her hairy legs. 

It's getting to be too much. 

She appreciates Vic, and she wants the makeup. 

She just wants the feeling of being a liar and a fake out of her heart. She’d cut it out if she could. 

“Maybe, uh,” she says, staring at her skirt. “Let’s just go now, okay? Maybe no makeup.”

“Okay, sure,” Vic says. “I. Well, I want to wear something that doesn’t smell like overpriced beer. Lemme, uh… lemme change, and we’ll go.”

“Okay.”

In ten minutes, because most of Vic’s wardrobe smells like overpriced beer from being worn over and over again without washing, they’re walking to the diner. 

It’s a little over a mile, almost 2a.m. It's a beautiful but chilly night, making Henry grateful she's wearing that jacket and the long-sleeved shirt under it. Grateful to her good boots for being warm, grateful to Vic for chattering on about the drama from the bar, distracting her from the fact that she's  _ trying  _ to be a girl, but hasn’t shaved her legs. 

When they get to the diner, pot of decaf on the way, their usual orders on the griddle, Henry looks at Vic. 

Vic looks back. 

“You know… uh. Y’know, I’m still the person you’ve always known, right?” she asks. 

“Yeah, obviously. If you had wanted me to do you up like a drag queen, I’d have been worried about you being secretly different, but. Nah. I know who I’m looking at. I just have to talk about you differently. Do you want to change your name?”

“Nah, I. I dunno, actually. I still feel like Henry, y’know? Just. Chick-Henry.”

Vic starts out chuckling and ends up almost screaming with laughter, getting eyes from all around the moderately full diner. 

" _ Cut it out," _ she hisses again. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Vic gasps. "I just… I pictured you on a fucking farm again, covered in chicks — fuckin'... baby chickens… and I just —" he gasps for air — "Jesus fucking Christ…"

"You…" she starts. Then she stops, looks at the pure joy on his face, feels hers heat up. "You're a fucking freak."

"You love it," he sighs, putting his head down on the tabletop. 

_ You love it.  _

More like:  _ you love me.  _

Henry doesn't fucking know where that thought came from, but yeah, if it would save her life, she'd say she loved him out loud. 

As it stands, though?

"Do I?" she grunts. 

"We're still friends for a reason," he says. "If you can't fuckin' stand me, there's a reason you keep me around."

She thinks on that. 

Their food arrives, and they eat. 

An hour later, they're back at home. 

With the food, Henry's sobering up and not happy about it. Vic was only barely tipsy as they walked to the diner, now stone-cold sober and  _ not happy about it _ . 

Vic nudges Henry into helping him with the dishes. As she dries a plate, he reaches over and turns on the clock radio next to the sink. It's a song she's never heard before, not even from Belch, and for a reason called  _ weed, whiskey, and tequila _ , it makes her sad. 

The door leading into the kitchen from the garage opens, and Belch's voice rings out:

"C'mon, Patrick. You'll catch a cold."

The last statement is accompanied by grumbling, then all-out bitching, from Patrick, who follows Belch inside. 

She's bracing for impact, her body tight as a guitar string. She's waiting to get strummed and sing. 

Belch doesn't say anything, but Patrick catches one look at her and  _ crows. _

“Patrick,” Vic snaps, throwing down the dish towel he had just borrowed from her. 

“What, Vicky? What the hell do you want?” Patrick says, advancing on Henry, eyes locking with hers. 

“No, Patrick. What do  _ you  _ want?” Henry growls. 

“Aw. Pretty baby doesn’t wanna play with me?” Patrick wheedles, reaching out for the collar of her jacket. 

She sees it all in slow-motion, bone-tired and full of the same adrenaline that’s been fueling her since Butch died. She reaches for his hand, catches him by the wrist, and pulls him closer, spinning him around and yanking his hand up between his shoulder blades. 

“You better say,” she growls in his ear, “ _ exactly _ what you wanna say right now, while I don’t got a hand free to clock you.”

He laughs, and she sees his reflection in the little window over the kitchen sink. He’s higher than 50-foot-woman pussy, that much she can tell with how he’s squirming. Probably coke snorted off some guy’s dick, and yeah, she wishes that was her, being high, but right now? She’s in the mood to fucking snap and choke him until he passes the fuck out. 

The kitchen is dead silent, Vic and Belch watching with concern for Henry and anger at Patrick, Patrick wriggling to try and free his arm, and Henry riding a fucking dragon she’s been buddies with since she was fucking five and Butch made her use alcohol to take the red permanent marker off her fingernails. 

Ghosts. She’s hanging out with ghosts. 

And that fucking  _ pisses her off _ . 

Finally, Patrick spits, “I’ve got nothing I want to say to you.”

“Look who finally made a smart choice,” Henry grunts, letting him go. 

“Whatever,” Patrick says. “I’m done. Later, freaks.”

He goes to take a step away. Henry, not thinking, never thinking, grabs his shoulder, whirls him around to face her, and sucker punches him in the nose. 

Ten minutes later sees them all sitting in a line on the edge of the patio, laughing their asses off. In the end, it was a fucking miracle she didn’t break his nose. Sure, he’s holding a bag of frozen peas to it — a bag of frozen peas, bought not to eat, but to help heal — but it didn’t break, and it didn’t bleed, and Henry’s glad. The only thing she did was help him sober up a little bit, and maybe she punched a bruise into his dignity. 

“I think I’m finally coming down,” Patrick yawns. 

It’s almost 4a.m. 

“And what did we learn?” Belch says in the tone he got from his mama. 

“Be more specific about why I’m calling someone a freak,” Patrick says. 

“No, Patrick,” Vic sighs. “Just… stop calling your friends  _ freaks _ .”

Patrick huffs a laugh out through his nose. 

“Yeah, no,” he says. 

“Patrick,” Vic warns. 

“I swear to God, Vicky,” Patrick says, starting in on a low-level bitchfest. 

Henry clears her throat. He shuts up. 

“So,” she says. 

And then she can’t remember what it was that she thought was so important she had to interrupt. 

“I don’t…” she sighs, “I don’t fuckin’ know what to do, now.”

All three of them, her guys, her partners in crime, they look at her. It almost hurts. 

She remembers the first time she lost a fight. The last time, too — all the same fight. 

That big-mouthed guy who could’ve been Belch’s brother. Jesse.  _ God _ . 

God, how old  _ was  _ she? Eleven? He knocked her fucking flat, and then fucking  _ out _ , and she woke up in the nurse’s office. 

Once she wasn’t seeing double anymore, she was escorted to the principal’s office. Butch would be hearing about it, and she hoped they wouldn’t include the fact that she didn’t walk away on her own. 

They did. 

When she got off the bus, he had been waiting. A still-cool bottle of beer in hand, TV turned down low. 

She’d pretended nothing had happened for the rest of the school day, but she couldn’t pretend once she stepped in the door to the house, and he had said, soft as anything:

_ My, how the mighty have fallen.  _

It makes her furious to be reminded of this right now, when she’s looking around at her friends who’d do anything for her. To be reminded of this after holding her own. To be reminded — just because she feels like she’s failing her dead-as-a-doornail father. 

“Vic?” she asks. 

“Yeah, babe?”

She blushes. It doesn’t matter. They’re sitting in the early, early morning dark, the patio light not turned on. 

She… likes being called that. 

“D’ya... “ She sighs. “You ever wonder what your dad would say?”

She doesn’t have to specify:  _ about what _ . 

She loves that. 

“Oh, God…” Vic sighs. “He’d probably buy me a sweater vest so I’d kinda fit his idea of what a man should be.”

She nods. 

He starts laughing. It's contagious, his laughter, and soon they’re all dying. Because it’s true, Vic’s dad the fucking  _ banker  _ in his fucking  _ sweater vests _ and fucking  _ pleated slacks _ . 

“Fuckin’... ugly as all get-out,” Henry cackles, wheezing when she has to draw a breath. 

“Nuh-uh!” Vic insists. “I’d wear it with a schoolgirl skirt and platform heels and he’d fucking  _ eat it _ .”

Belch reaches over and high-fives him. 

Henry just… looks at Vic. Looks at this mirror image of herself in a few years’ time. 

“All right,” she says. 

“Hm?” Patrick hums. 

“I’m… heading to bed. Vic, c’mon, I gotta ask a favor.”

“Hm?” Vic says, looking doe-eyed up from chewing his cuticles. 

“I said,  _ c’mon _ .”

“Yeah,” he says, getting up and following her, how she’s already walking away, back into the house, “and I was asking why.”

She goes to his room. He follows, arriving at the door mere moments after her. 

“Do you have…” she starts. 

Then she sighs. When she thinks of being tired in the future, she’ll think of this night, this moment. 

She starts again: “Do you have anything girly I can sleep in?”

And Vic?

Vic lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. 

“Aw,  _ fuck  _ yeah!” he crows into the empty room. 

“Hey, just, uh,” she says, rushing after him as he races to his set of drawers, “remember that I’m still me, okay? I’m not a doll, I’m asking for help.”

“Firstly, you’re real sweet and calm when you’re sleepy,” Vic points out. “It’s cute. Thought you should know. Secondly, I fucking know who you are and what you want, okay? And I want to help you.”

He cries out in triumph and throws, over his shoulder, a pair of short shorts and a matching t-shirt. 

The shorts are plush and almost furry. They look like those stupidly delicious slogan heart candies from Valentine’s day. All those colors and weird supposedly romantic sayings. They look like they’ll be a little baggy on her, which is perfect. The shirt is soft, butter yellow with one big heart on it. It says,  **LICK ME** . 

...okay, so she kinda loves them. 

“Sweet,” she says. “Thanks.”

She looks down at her clothes. She looks in the mirror. 

Now that her clothes are wrinkled a little, broken in, she looks like herself. Well and  _ truly  _ herself. 

She smiles. 

He comes up behind her, sleep-drunk, and wraps his arms around her middle, cuddling up to her with his chin on her shoulder. 

“Pretty-pretty,” he whispers. 

She swallows. 

“Thanks,” she whispers back. 

“Hey, Henry?”

“Yeah, Vic?”

And then he presses a kiss to the side of her neck. 

She recoils faster than she can think about whether that’s what she wants to do or not. 

She catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror as she turns to face him.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Vic, I’m so sorry,” she says. “I just — you — you surprised me, that’s all.”

“It’s fine,” he says, turning away. “Uh, g’night, I guess.”

“Yeah. G’night.”

She leaves, taking the borrowed pajamas with her. 

When she’s in the new pajamas, more comfortable than she’s ever been in borrowed clothes (although maybe that’s because she’s not wearing underwear with them), and when the house is quiet as a ghost town, her boys all gone to bed, she steps out onto the patio, a Red tucked behind her ear and a lighter in her hand. 

She doesn’t know Vic is there until she trips on him and nearly busts her right knee falling. 

“Christ, Vic,” she snaps. 

“Fuck you, I sit where I want,” he snaps back. 

Sneering, she turns to look at him, shuffling around on her knees, and finds him cradling his glass pipe — transparent with purple streaks and white speckles — with tears in his eyes. 

The sneer slips off her face, her eyebrows drawing together. 

“Are you… crying?”

“I said — fuck. You.”

“Vicky, baby. Are you crying?”

“I’m just…” he sighs. 

And then he takes a hit. 

She lights her cigarette and lets it dangle between her lips as she gets situated next to Vic, back up against the brick wall of the house. 

Five minutes later, her Red is almost done. She sighs, ashing it, and Vic produces a pack of them for her, a tradition years old. 

In the early days, she needed a way to calm the fuck down, but had no money for smokes. Butch? Give her money? Birthday and Christmas only. 

But a pack of smokes will not get you through 4 months. 

One day, she’d been bitching about it in secret to Belch.  _ He’d  _ talked to Vic, and a week later, when they’d all been in Amy cruising, Henry had gotten so keyed up that she’d reached back and yanked on Patrick’s hair to get him to shut up. Silent, Vic had pulled a pack of Reds out of nowhere, chose one, lit it, and passed it her way. 

Last year, after all that time, he’d told Mama Huggins about Vic’s secretive smokes 

Her opinion?

_ He loves you a lot.  _

Henry’s take?

_ He could fuckin’ tell me where he keeps them, though.  _

Vic lights the cigarette for her, trading her smoked-down one for the fresh one. He finishes the first and watches, glassy-eyed, as she takes a drag of the new one. 

“Did you know,” Vic says finally, “that I love you?”

“Huh?”

“You fucking know what I said.”

“Yeah, I do. I just don’t know why you’re bringing it up. I love you too, man.”

It’s only June, and he’s already using up his one  _ I love you _ from her for the year. She hates saying that shit. She’s pretty damn sure it is pretty damn obvious that she loves him, that she loves all of them. 

He sighs. 

“You don’t get it.”

“Huh?”

“I said I love you, and you think… God, you don’t fucking  _ get it! _ ”

He sighs. He continues. 

“I fucking — every time I pull a cigarette out of nowhere for you, every time I’ve bailed you out of some bad shit, every time I helped you with your homework, rubbed elbows to get you jobs, I was… I’m not saying you owe me shit. Because that’s not how this works. I’m saying that every time I did something for you, I was loving you, hoping you felt loved.”

She stares at him. Stock-still. Deer in the headlights. 

She’s piecing together a puzzle more than ten years in the making. 

“You…” he continues, “you. God, you. I thought you were the prettiest boy I’d ever seen, that first time I saw you. Forever ago, and I still think you’re so pretty. And now… now you’re breaking out of this toxic wasteland you were raised in, and I’m so proud of you, and I love you so much it’s killing me.”

Out the corner of her eye, she sees the long stack of ash fall off the end of her cigarette all on its own. 

Out the corner of her eye, she can see her hand shaking. 

He…  _ loves _ . Her. 

“And y’know what? I just… should’ve known better. I saw a chance, I took it, and you all but ran away from me. That hurts, but… if you wanna wake up later and call it nonexistent, I’m okay with that. I’m not gonna wait on you, sweetheart, but I’m still gonna love you.”

She swallows. 

She forces herself to move, to take the pipe out of his nearly-slack hand, to hold it tightly in hers. 

“Um…” she starts, “I kinda always had a crush on you, I just didn’t know it could go anywhere. ‘Cause you’re… you.”

“Huh?”

“I said I like you, a lot. But…”

“But what?”

“Dude, you’re like… sparkly. And I’m a farm girl who works in a hardware store.”

Vic huffs out a breath through his nose. 

“So you’re butch. Did you ever think maybe I think that’s really, really hot?”

“...No?”

Vic looks at her like he’s looking at the thing that’s going to kill him. He looks at her — he just looks. 

The thing about Vic is that she… understands what he means when he looks at someone like this. She’s seen it before, girlfriends, boyfriends, even that one partner of his that no one called  _ he  _ or  _ she _ , just by name. 

She just never thought she’d be on the receiving end of this look. 

"I don't think," she says, "that I had ever thought you might like me more than a friend. Ever."

"You're so fucking oblivious," he snorts. 

"Hey," she says. "I know now. And you know that I like you."

"Yeah…"

“So, uh…” she says.

She’s got a million and one things she wants to ask him, to hear. But she’s so goddamn tired, and there’s nothing she wants more than to sleep. 

He looks at her. 

She shrugs and takes a hit off his pipe. It’s getting ashy and full of grime. That’s where he is right now, too tired or scared or sad to clean his pipe between bowls. 

She coughs. A lot. And Vic rubs her back and murmurs, “it’s okay, you’re okay,” over and over again until she’s no longer feeling anything but high. 

“We should probably,” she says, tipping her head back to lean up against the brick wall behind them, “we should probably go to bed, huh?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. 

“‘Kay. Help me up?”

He helps her up, getting back the pipe along the way. 

They head inside. 

They look at each other in the low light of the living room. Nearly pitch black, but the stark white of Vic’s chest stands out, shines. 

She wants to put her mouth on his sternum as she sleeps. 

She wants to tell him she loves him, again. 

She swallows. 

“My bed, or yours?” she croaks, too tired to do more than make a weak joke. 

He sighs, smiling. 

“Mine,” he says. 

So they go. They go up to his room, crawl into bed, side by side. 

It’s not the first time they’ve done this, sleep side by side. But it’s been about a year since they have, and they lie there and they look at each other, and they breathe. 

Henry scoots closer to Vic. He pulls the blanket higher, higher, above their heads. She settles in, nose touching his, as he leaves the top of the blanket at ear level. 

“I don’t,” she starts. She stops. She thinks. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Uh. Love one of my best friends,” she says. 

“Wish I could tell you it’s easy, sweetheart,” he says. 

“ _ What _ .”

He cracks up. 

“You fuckin’ dork,” he chuckles. 

And then he pulls her in by the back of her neck, brushing her lips with his. 

She holds still, so still she’s willing her heart not to beat. She doesn’t want this to get fucked up somehow. 

He kisses her. Nudging her nose with his, he pecks her lips, then settles in for a real kiss. He runs a hand through her hair, smiling. 

She smiles back. 

She doesn’t know it now, but in years to come, when she thinks about love, she’ll think about this kiss. This moment, in bed with Vic, with someone who gets her and loves her no matter what. This night, how it ends:

He pulls away from the kiss. 

“Still scared?” he asks. 

“Never said I was.”

“Didn’t have to.”

She rolls her eyes. 

And then she nods, and yawns, and cuddles up into his shoulder. 

When she wakes up the next day, Vic, from across the room, says, “oh thank fuck, I thought I’d elbowed you in my sleep and knocked you out.”

Then he puts a record on. 

Aretha Franklin. 

She gets out of bed, glancing at his alarm clock. Two in the afternoon. 

And Vic rushes over and pulls her into his arms. 

“I am going,” he says, then takes a deep breath, holding it, and letting it go, “I am going to love the  _ fuck  _ out of you.”

She could just about cry. 

But she doesn’t. 

She smiles, and pulls him closer, and says, “not unless I get there first.”

**Author's Note:**

> catch me elsewhere at god--baby.tumblr.com


End file.
